New Canaan was a prosperous and flourishing place. The bold first-generation settlers from Tyrador built this young yet vibrant city on the coast of the Emerald Sea. Its exceptional geographical location and all-weather starport attracted colonists from every part of Tyrador IV, along with the wealthy from nearby nine major worlds and the middle class inclined toward emigration.
There were no towering skyscrapers like those in other Core Worlds, nor the linearly arranged modular towns seen elsewhere. The wooden and stone-built houses were full of texture and individuality—the kind of architectural style rarely seen among humans in any era.
In the commercial district at the center of New Canaan, the wide streets were paved with irregularly shaped, colorful tiles and lacquered wooden planks. Both sides of the streets were lined with lush, leafy trees. Behind the sturdy trunks were shops decorated with handicrafts, crystal display windows, and handsome men and beautiful women. The shop owners of New Canaan enthusiastically sold souvenirs, local wines, pets, and goods they had managed to acquire through various channels to visiting tourists.
Even in this era, interstellar travel and vacations spanning multiple astronomical units and star systems were luxuries reserved for the wealthy. Of course, if someone from the lowest rungs of society could scavenge a single-seat ship equipped with a warp drive from a junkyard, and find a few barrels of crude, low-grade refinery gas for fuel, he could fly out of the system—though what came next would depend entirely on his luck.
The pedestrians along New Canaan's streets on Tyrador IX were all well-dressed, graceful, and affluent. They might have come from more than a dozen parsecs away (a parsec being an astronomical unit of distance used to measure lengths beyond the solar system, equal to 3.26 light-years). Among them were many newlyweds on their honeymoons, and on their faces could more or less be seen the marks of laser micro-cosmetic surgery.
Walking along the night streets of New Canaan, gently brushed by the sea breeze, young Matt Horner knew full well that the wealth possessed by each of those elegantly dressed men and women passing by him likely exceeded the total assets of the Horner family's shop. But Matt had no reason to care—after all, his chances of inheriting the family business were slim.
The Horner family ran a small local business, belonging to the middle class. They owned their own house and a ground-hover car in New Canaan. As the second son of the family, Matt Horner had grown up in an environment that was not particularly privileged but at least free from worries about food and clothing. He didn't have to, like many young people on the fringe worlds of the Terran Confederacy, drop out of junior high or high school early to struggle for a living.
Just like many people his age on Tyrador IX, the fifteen-year-old Matt Horner was at the most confused stage of his life. Matt never had to worry about what to eat for his next meal or how to fill his stomach, yet the choices left to him in life were not many.
For the younger generation of Tyrador, people like Matt either found a local job after graduating from high school or chose to go to college for further study. In the past, the wealthiest families on Tyrador would send their children to attend universities on Tarsonis or Korhal IV, but Matt had to rely on his own effort and scholarships.
Now, a most common kind of trouble deeply bothered the young Matt—he did not know what he should do in the future, or what kind of profession he should pursue. Whether it was staying on Tyrador, waiting for the day to inherit the family business, or going to university on Tarsonis for further study, Matt already had his answer in his heart, for he firmly believed he could never endure the idle and unchanging life of his hometown.
Since childhood, Matt had liked staying by the seaside, gazing at the ocean, staring without blinking at the luxury yachts, moored ships, and cruise hotels passing along the coast. Perhaps every boy, when looking at the sea, harbored a fantasy of setting sail on a distant voyage. Yet the ocean, too, had its limits—only the vast sea of stars was the true destination for every adventurer of this age.
In the interstellar era of the Koprulu sector, some people never left the patch of land beneath their feet from birth to death, while others knew from the moment they were born that their fate was to roam among the stars.
This day was no different for Matt. Before the end of spring break, he still had plenty of time to spend wandering around. Passing through the central commercial street of New Canaan and heading north led to the world-famous Emerald Sea, where there were beautiful sailboats and seaplanes.
The Horner family was not a large household with strict family rules, and Mrs. Horner never required her children to return home by a certain time. After all, compared with his father and elder brother, Matt had always been a calm and composed person. He held in his heart a dream of escaping gravity and venturing into the starry sky, but he was never swayed by such distant dreams. Diligence and practicality were the fundamental reasons the Horner family had been able to establish themselves on Tyrador IX during the Great Colonization Era.
The road through the commercial street was long, but Matt did not mind improving his life experience by coming into contact with all kinds of people. Only the lively voices of the crowd could make him feel a hint of change in the otherwise unvarying routine of his daily life.
In the depths of the commercial street, the neon shop signs and brilliant colored lights illuminated Matt's vision into a dazzling world of light. Farther ahead, black iron railings separated the residential district of the rich from the streets of the commercial area. Between the two were domesticated beasts and security personnel armed with C-20A shotguns and P-40 submachine guns, guarding the boundary.
At that moment, Matt suddenly heard the sound of orderly footsteps. Among the pedestrians of the commercial street, a squad of Terran Confederacy Marines clad in light brown powered armor was marching briskly past.
These Marines were all wearing freshly painted CMC-200 powered armor and carrying C-14 gauss rifles. Their figures were tall and imposing, and with the help of the servo systems, each step they took covered a long distance. The glossy armor of the Marines, shining as though oiled, bore the emblem of a unicorn—this signified that they all belonged to the Tyrador Knights, a well-equipped colonial defense force.
Confederate Marines were "renowned" across many planets for being invincible and unmatched in battle, while the Marines of Tyrador bore an even nobler mission—to provide heightened protection for the wealthy district of New Canaan.
The Tyrador Knights wearing "knight armor" were different from those warriors who had undergone re-socialization; they all came from local families and retained complete personalities.
Strictly speaking, the Tyrador Knights were merely the planetary defense force of the Tyrador system, originating from the system's original militia units. They were not even under the command of the Confederate Army but directly subordinate to the Governor of the Tyrador system.
Having not experienced war for over a century, the Tyrador Knights often took on jobs that could earn them extra income. They served the wealthy, great merchants, and nobles, with their business covering all sorts of fields—including providing personal protection for dignitaries going on hunts, or even acting as beach lifeguards.
Like the security guards in the slums, the Tyrador Knights served only the rich or the powerful—or both. Among the people of Tyrador, the Knights did not have much of a good reputation. Those Tyrador citizens fond of criticizing current affairs often mocked them as "green-shelled crabs on stilts," a jab at their gleaming armor and laughable combat prowess.
The soldiers of the Knights passed by Matt, striding quickly into the distance without so much as glancing at him. Judging by how hurried they looked, they were either rushing to put out a fire in New Canaan's wealthy district or anxious to rescue some magnate's pet cat stuck up a tree.
Matt couldn't help but envy that gleaming armor. He turned his head to look at the squad of Tyrador Knights gradually walking away behind him, hoping that one day he might have the chance to wear such armor and experience it for himself. It wasn't that Matt was like some Shiloh farm boy named Jimmy who, after seeing a majestic Goliath combat walker, decided to enlist in the military. He merely longed for such things, not in the least desiring to join the Confederate Army.
Just as Matt withdrew his gaze and turned back to look ahead, a broad-shouldered man with short dark-gray hair was walking toward him. At a glance, Matt could tell that this man was no ordinary person. His expression was resolute, his thick eyebrows slightly furrowed, giving the impression that he was troubled by something—and that something was certainly not any trivial matter of daily life.
At a certain moment, the man suddenly turned his head toward Matt and met his eyes.
New Canaan was close to the ocean, and the night breeze was cool and refreshing.
For a few seconds—or perhaps only an instant—the two looked at each other, and Matt quickly averted his gaze, his face flushed, the backs of his ears hot. At fifteen years old, Matt Horner was a shy child—easily embarrassed, easily blushing, soft in temperament.
Matt was wearing a black school uniform, and anyone could tell at a glance that he was a student.
At this time, Matt was still a fair-skinned boy with dark brown curls and a clean, youthful face. His skin was pale, his Adam's apple not yet prominent, and his features still carried traces of childishness. Even as a boy, one could say he had a certain cuteness to him.
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